The Dark War
by Justmyimagination99
Summary: Prologue -- A girl is haunted by horrific images of fire, death, and darkness, and an ominous figure that seems born from the shadows themselves. What do the dreams mean? This marks the beginning of the great journey and the war against all evil.


THE DARK WAR—PROLOGUE

Lightning. Violent, purple, brilliant lightning.

That was always the first thing she saw.

But it wasn't the lightning that scared her the most.

Nor was it the burning village surrounding her, the thatched roofs alight with searing flames, the columns of smoke billowing into the air, the acrid fumes poisoning the wind, the raging fires leaping up into the night sky and staining it orange and grey.

Nor was it the anguished cries of the dead and dying around her, the wretched moans of pain and despair, the pleas for mercy and screams of terror, all blending together in a horrible, wailing chorus drowning in the rivers of blood.

Nor was it the darkness that crept across the earth and sky despite the towering flames, the shadows that writhed in the very air before her, the blackness that moved with life of its own and smothered everything it touched, choking the spirit of any living thing within reach.

No. She had seen all of these before. Night after restless night, they appeared to her, plunging her into these fitful nightmares. She was almost used to the horror they caused. But one thing still held her heart in a vise-like grip…something that was never fully there, but was visible just enough to make her blood run cold.

A cloaked figure, clad in the darkest black, rising before her. It appeared from the shadows on the ground, rising up like an onyx serpent from a murky pool. Slowly it would draw itself up, measuring far taller than she. Its back was always turned to her, its identity shrouded in the black hood covering its head. It would stand a few feet from her, motionlessly observing the chaos and destruction before it. Then, it would turn its head ever so slightly, as if to face her, but before she even saw the edge of the hood, she would awake, panting in cold sweat.

But not tonight. This night, everything changed.

Again, the figure rose from the liquid shadow. Again, it stood, back turned, gazing at the pyre and blood. Again, after a moment, it began to turn its head. She strained to see it with a twisted curiosity, wanting a glimpse of the thing that haunted her.

And with a soundless scream, she did.

The hooded face stared at her fully and without remorse.

At first, she thought the face itself was a shadow, an empty, black chasm. Its skin, if it was skin at all, was blacker than the hood, so dark even the glow from the fires could not light it. She could see no features upon its face, save for its eyes…oh, its eyes! Like great rings of endless flames, its eyes burned with horrible malice. Centered about serpentine pupils, its fiery iris extended to the edges, leaving no distinguishable white. Yet, though they glowed with the same fury as the burning village, they were not searing or scorching…they were cold. Colder than the ice of the northern mountains, those flaming eyes glared at her with cruelty, pitilessness, and power. She was transfixed to the spot, unable to move under their terrible gaze.

Slowly, the black figure shifted, raising its arm. She wanted to run, begged her legs to flee, but they did not answer. A hand appeared from the cloaked arm, extending long, onyx fingers towards her. Black nails pointed at her throat like claws. She could not move, could not escape her invisible prison. The glowing eyes narrowed, unmerciful, and suddenly, she could not breathe. She felt four simultaneous stabs into her throat, unleashing streams of blood, yet the hand was still not touching her. The pressure on her neck lessened, and she screamed, long and loud, as the writhing shadows on the ground rose up to swallow her…

Her eyes flew open as she woke with a start, the scream dying on her lips. She sat up, supporting herself on weak arms. Her forehead had broken out into a cold sweat already, and her breath came out in short pants. She clutched at her burning throat, groping to feel the four wounds. She let out a sigh of wary relief: they were not there. It was just another nightmare.

Her panting subsided into even breathing once more. Wiping sweat from her forehead, she gazed out the window in her bedroom. Outside a storm raged, beating at the glass with angry gales of rain. Lightning flashed, illuminating her pale face, her golden hair, her green eyes. She withheld a gasp, then pressed a hand to her trembling heart as the dark memories flickered past her mind's eye. The lightning, the pyre, the shadows, the figure…why did they persist? Was she always to wake like this, night after night, and listen to the blood rush frantically in her ears until the morning light came streaming mercifully in through the window? Why?

She closed her eyes, leaning up against the wall—for her bed lacked a head board—and resting her head in her hand. She passed her hand across her forehead again, massaging her temples in exhaustion. She needed sleep, but she dared not let herself slip into slumber once more, fearing the persistent, horrible images that haunted her dreams. She sighed faintly, knowing what came next. Swinging her legs over her bedside, she stood and walked towards the window, her footsteps soft as skin met wood. She sat in the windowsill and gazed outside at the powerful storm, wincing as the lightning lit up the sky and shivering when the wind howled. As the rain pattered against the glass, she waited for morning and the end of another sleepless night.

Why? her mind whispered desperately, her eyes imploring the black sky. Why do I see these things, what do they mean? Do they mean anything, or is it meaningless? What am I not hearing, what do they say to me?

Another bolt of lightning cast her pleading face in remorseless light.

…Fear…

…Darkness…

…Fire…

…A warning?

…Death…

…Why?


End file.
